


Red Moon Rising

by masterpretender



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alpha Rick Grimes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Daryl Dixon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterpretender/pseuds/masterpretender





	1. Prologue

It's dark. He's running. Rain hits his face and branches whip him from all angles, stinging him like thorns.

Something's chasing him, growing closer and closer each step.

It's not human.

Not the undead. 

He can feel it on his heels already. His boots slapping against the leaves and twigs are like a siren call for the roamers, but they're the least of his damn worries. Daryl runs harder, eyes wide, senses his only guide. And the moon; that big, blood red moon. 

He doesn't know why he's running when he's not gonna get away, feels ice cold terror like doom and--

 _Thump_.

He's tackled to the ground by a massive weight. It crushes him, takes the air out of his lungs, and as soon as he gets it back he cries out. His nails scrabble in the dirt like a mouse caught by its tail, panic strong but ultimately useless. In desperation, he turns and bites down on the nearest part of the beast, so hard he feels the meat give between his teeth.

A roar sounds by his ear, so loud Daryl’s ears ring and his stomach curdles. The beast rears back and its skin tears, spraying blood. Daryl feels himself being picked up by his fuckin' shirt, of all things, before the ground moves under him. Tossing him aside like it's throwing a fit. Daryl grunts as his body hits the ground and rolls like a ragdoll, and he spits out the chunk, tasting iron and wet fur.

Daryl doesn’t have time to collect himself, can’t even cough or suck in a breath. He scrambles to his feet, but he slips in the mud slick from the rain and falls flat on his ass. Thunder booms across the sky, but it isn’t nearly as loud as his heart when the beast takes the opportunity Daryl just handed him on a silver fuckin’ platter and lunges as him, wide and open mouthed, jaw unhinged. 

It strikes. Searing hot pain burns into Daryl's neck, freezing him in place like he's been paralyzed. His vision swims and he blinks through tears, knowing, just _knowing_ , this is the end.

The beast growls, digging in deeper with those gargantuan fangs, and Daryl lets out a high whimper. He doesn't even sound like himself. Merle would have a shitfit if he could see him now.

The beast does an odd thing then, almost _hesitates_. Daryl knows this isn’t normal behaviour. Not for any animal. The fangs retract with a wet squelch. 

Daryl shakes as he waits for the next fatal bite, curling up into the fetal position as blood gushes from his wound. He doesn’t dare try to escape again, his entire body locked. It feels like a fire is running through his veins, like he’s burning from the inside out, and the next thing Daryl knows, his eyes roll back and the darkness swallows him up.


	2. Chapter 2

He comes to with the sun shining in his eyes and his entire body drenched in sweat.

Daryl groans and rolls over, sheets twisting under him. It sounds so _loud_ that he cringes. He clutches his head as he heaves himself to his feet, trying to take stock. His head is pounding like a fuckin’ drum, his neck and shoulder throbbing in time with his pulse. “Whah th'damn fuck,” he mutters. 

Daryl loses his footing and catches himself against a wall with an unsteady hand. He looks down through a curtain of stringy hair at his toes. He can feel every fibre of the rug sharp like it's rubbing against new, raw skin.

Daryl looks back at the bed, seeing double, and then triple. It's a king size mattress, mahogany headboard with soft blue covers. Everything is clean. New. _What, where, who,_ and _why_ run through his brain in a sluggish mess.

He hasn't felt this weak or disoriented in a long time - like a newborn colt on shaky legs. Not since his old man used to beat him so bloody he couldn’t walk, would wake up with a giant blank space where days used to be and terror in his veins.

Daryl's knees buckle as he’s hit with a new wave of dizziness, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. His ears ring and his head swims like he’s underwater, his heart stuttering. 

There’s muffled footfalls from boots and a voice that sounds like it’s coming from far off into the distance. Daryl then seems to float. _"Shit, how're you even awake?"_

Daryl's eyes flutter as he tries to _stay_ that way, flailing his arms. No way would he let anyone manhandle him like this if he were lucid, not without a tooth and nail fight, but he doesn't have control, helpless, and so his feeble twisting away does nothing to stop the man from putting him right back in the bed. Fresh pine floods his nostrils as his face hits the pillow, so strong and so real Daryl deliriously wonders if he’s still in the forest, nose deep in pine needles.

He curls up into a ball, bracing himself, even though he’s on the brink of passing out anyway.

_"Easy. Not gonna hurt you.”_

Daryl can't focus, breath shallow. His eyes roll back. He has a sudden, vivid memory of darkness lit up by a big red moon, of teeth snapping at him with a snarl, of his own howl of pain as they pierced his neck and sank deep, blood gushing everywhere.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He’s been bit. He’s bit.

 _“I'm not gonna hurt you.”_ Carefully shaped words, and earnest too, like the guy's actually telling the truth. _“You're safe here."_

Daryl wants to laugh, because he's never been safe a damn day in his life -- no such thing as safe, even _before_ the virus - but his neck throbs again, pain so strong his stomach lurches and his vision blurs. He curls up tighter, realization making him panic.

His captor shushes him, carding a gentle hand through his matted hair like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. _“It’s alright, we’ll talk later. I’ll explain everything to you. Sleep now, it’s alright.”_

What is there to explain? He got bit. He’s infected. End of story. 

The man, though. His touch is so warm. Ludicrously warm. Daryl smells pine and something comforting sweet like honey, but he's already falling to the darkness again.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Daryl comes around, his head feels a lot less like it's trying to bang out a drum solo. His skin isn't drenched in sweat anymore, dry and warm instead. Daryl burrows deeper into the covers and tucks his nose into the pillow. He inhales the fabric, and then inhales again slower, feeling his entire body go lax as the scent from before floods through him. Sharp pine and warm honey. It smells... _good._

He hears the crackling of a fire coming from the other side of the room, something bubbling on a stove further down, and... someone humming, something that sounds a lot like an Elvis song. This can’t be real. 

_That’s because it ain’t real, shithead. You’re hallucinatin’, jus’ like you do me, every useless day of your damn life._

The voice in his head, the one that always sounds like his brother, is quieter than normal. Already fading as fast as it came. 

Daryl doesn't know why he isn't panicking, why he isn't jumping to his feet and bolting out of here, but there's something so... comforting about it. He wants to stay here, wrapped up like a fuckin' burrito in this soft quilt, surrounded by this smell. Be a nice way to die.

Daryl reluctantly opens his eyes.

_Bout time, sleepin’ beauty. Jus' 'cause ya got bit don't mean you're allowed to sleep in._

Merle.

Memories come to Daryl, like they always do, only usually they're dreams too. Nightmares. Making his way to the prison where Merle had been locked up, only to find the place overrun by roamers. Scouring each cell and executing every one of those dead fuckers until he found Merle’s. It was empty, door open, but there was a note written on one of the walls in his childish scrawl. Daryl could recognize it anywhere. _Keep comin’, keep comin’ at me_ , it'd said. He used his blood as ink. More likely someone else’s.

Merle's the only reason Daryl’s bothered hanging on, only reason he's bothered surviving this long. And now...

Daryl sits up in the bed and swallows down the lump that tries to grow in his throat. He searched every corpse, every mutilated face in that prison yard for hours, pacing along the fence until he’d been forced to move on. He searched for a body to bury. Found none. His brother’s either somewhere else, a safe point or a community, or camping out in the woods looking for him. Merle’s the toughest son of a bitch Daryl knows. He’s still out there, fighting like hell and gaining more enemies than friends. He has to be.

The staircase creaking startles him out of his thoughts, and Daryl’s heart starts running like a rabbit. He looks around for a weapon he can use, hoping to see his crossbow but not at all surprised when he doesn’t. The knife from his boot is gone, too, as are his boots. Fuck.

He remembers what the guy said about not hurting him, but hell if Daryl is gonna be naive enough to believe that bullshit. The world doesn’t work like that no more. Really, it never did, people just have an easier time admitting it now.

He ends up grabbing the alarm clock on the nightstand and shoving it under the blankets, gripping it tightly just as there’s a soft knock on the door. A body nudges it open.

“Hey there,” the man says to him. There’s a tray in his hands, looks like it came from a cafeteria, steam rising from a bowl on it. Daryl’s stomach clenches and lets out an audible noise. Daryl’s gaze stays fixed on the man, though, even when he smiles slightly. It makes his eyes crinkle up into friendly half-moons. “I brought you some food, sounds like it’s been a while. Name’s Rick, by the way.”

Daryl stares at him some more, not saying a thing. Rick nods in understanding after a moment and walks over slowly, putting the tray on the nightstand, Daryl’s eyes tracking his every move. Daryl notices Rick pause on the dusty outline where the clock used to be, and curses internally, hand spasming around it --but Rick doesn’t mention it, straightening up and gesturing at the tray. “Beef stew. Our finest, from a can. Pudding, also from a can. Water. And soda crackers. They’re probably a little stale.”

Now that the bowl is closer, the smell is harder to ignore, and Daryl feels his hunger intensify. Hell, breakfast in bed? If that ain’t suspicious. But... a hot meal. Shit, he can’t remember the last time he had one. 

Actually, scratch that. It was a jar of sticky peach preserves he’d found in a cellar and a possum he’d shot and roasted on a spit. That was a fine meal three weeks ago. Since then he’d managed on a few squirrels and whatever he could loot from houses and gas stations, which wasn’t much.

Daryl finally takes his eyes off of Rick and looks at the food. His hand shoots out to snatch the crackers. He brings them to his mouth and tears into them with his teeth before he thinks better, unable to control himself. They’re salty and dry but nearly make him growl for more. He should hesitate on the stew, could be laced with something for all he knows, but Daryl’s too ravenous to stop now. He takes the bowl and curls his arm around it protectively, huddling over it like Rick’s going to change his mind and take it away. 

He’s surprised by his appetite. He always figured if he got bit, he’d be queasy. Though maybe his body is craving something else, now. It’s telling him to just dig in with his hands and face like an animal, but the spoon is there so he uses it. The stew is hot, burning the roof of his mouth and his tongue, but Daryl doesn’t care. The mushy beef, potatoes, peas and gravy burst with more flavour than he feels like he’s ever tasted, and he can’t shovel it in fast enough.

“Slow down,” Rick says, interrupting him. His tone is still gentle but there’s something behind it that makes Daryl stiffen, his ears perked. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Daryl glares up at him, wiping his mouth off with the back of his arm. He swears he sees something change in Rick’s eyes, a flash, but it was probably a trick of the light, because they’re blue in the next second. Daryl looks down at the stew, shoulders hunching slightly as he takes the next bite, actually chewing it this time.

It’s weird, but that pine and honey scent that won’t get outta his nose, it gets sweeter, and his brain insists that he’s done the right thing. And what the fuck kinda thought is that? 

When he’s done, Daryl uses his fingers to scrape the bowl clean and sucks them dry, until there’s not a single drop left.

“There’s more where that came from for you later,” Rick tells him, like he’s reading Daryl’s mind - or maybe he’s giving the empty bowl too forceful of a look. “Once that settles.”

Daryl drops the bowl on his lap. His hand goes to his neck. There’s a bandage made of soft cloth and medical gauze. Which means he (they?) got an infirmary, or at least a decent first aid kit. Enough supplies to spare for a stranger. 

But why go to all this trouble for a dead man? Why waste food and supplies on someone infected? Why bother bringing him here at all? It’s a kindness nobody can afford now. Better to leave the nearly dead to the undead. There must be a reason.

"What happened?" Daryl says. It comes out grated, barely audible. "What is this place."

Rick doesn’t move for a few long seconds, then he comes and sits down in the chair beside the bed, turning so he's facing Daryl fully, forearms resting on his knees. The chair creaks just like the staircase, well worn. "I'm gonna answer your second question first. You're in a community. You understand why I can’t tell you where we are just yet.” His eyes connect with Daryl’s and stay there until Daryl nods slightly. “We call ourselves The Red Wolves.”

Kind of a stupid name, in Daryl's opinion. But the way Rick says it... Daryl brushes it off. Bunch of loony tunes here, no doubt.

“We're a family here, a pack, and while we are welcoming, we don’t take to newcomers lightly."

Daryl gets it. There’s nobody out there waiting for him to report back, though. Nobody but Merle, and he’s bit, gonna be gone soon anyhow. He has no interest in disturbing whatever business these guys have going on, nor does he plan to stay. He’d rather end his life alone in the woods, on his own terms, than surrounded by strangers dictating how he should go or when.

“You’re a special case, of course.” Rick rubs a hand along his jaw, and Daryl can hear the scraping noise of his fingers against his stubble.

Those fingers, they’re calloused. His features are mature, a strength behind them like he’s gone to hell and back and would go again in a heartbeat. Daryl can't deny the man is striking. Carries himself like a leader, has the kinda face that demands respect, the kinda posture that screams protective.

Daryl wonders what he did before the outbreak. Not that it matters. 

“I know you’re thinkin’ the worst, but I can tell you right now, with certainty, that you haven’t been infected. You were bitten, but that bite is not from a walker, and you’re going to survive.”

Daryl’s random thoughts immediately dissolve. Walker. He means the undead. He wasn’t—? What was it then, an animal? Rick’s words are somehow fully loaded and purposefully vague as fuck at the same time, hiding something. Daryl’s fist clenches in the blankets as his head fills with questions, relief and disbelief, but he waits for Rick to continue speaking instead, something quieting in him and telling him to be patient. His hand relaxes.

Rick smiles slightly at him, like Daryl passed some sort of test, and Daryl lowers his gaze on instinct, feeling his face heat up. Seriously. What the fuck is with this guy. “Before we get to the details, I’d like to ask you a few questions too. Can you tell me your name?”

“Daryl.”

“Daryl, alright. Where do you come from, Daryl? You’ve been on your own, or with others? Have you got a camp? A community?”

Daryl’s nose twitches, and he stares at the blankets. “S’just me,” he answers. “Don’t got no camp.”

“And how long’s it been just you?” Daryl can’t tell if Rick believes him or not, his voice neutral.

Daryl shrugs. “Since the beginnin’, pretty much.”

It’s mostly the truth. Rick doesn’t need to know about his dad.

“Mm. Did you get separated? Are you lookin’ for someone? Family, friends, a loved one?” 

He’s smart enough to know there’s gotta be something to live for, someone keeping him going. Not a lot of people wanna survive for nothing. Daryl looks away, towards the fire crackling away in the hearth near the foot of the bed, letting the flames swallow his vision. “M’brother,” he says finally. “Was in lock up when the outbreak hit. Hays State in Chattanooga County. Went there first.”

Rick’s silence is long. “You’ve come a long way since then.” It’s a statement. “All on foot?”

“Motorcycle,” Daryl says. He doesn’t tell Rick where, because if his group scouted the area Daryl was, chances are they already have it here. This is another honesty test.

Rick nods, something in his posture relaxing slightly. “We have your bike,” he confirms. “Don’t worry, it’s in good hands. Our mechanic, Dale, is looking after it. You’ll get it back.” _Not yet, though_ goes unsaid. “We have your crossbow too, as well as your knife and your pack.”

Daryl bites his thumbnail. He feels naked without his shit, vulnerable, and he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have a bad vibe - no gut instinct telling him to run, and that surprises him. “You gonna let me go?” he asks roughly.

“If once you’re healed, that’s what you decide you want to do... yes,” Rick says, surprising Daryl. “But I’d like you to hear me out, Daryl, before you make your decision, and have you understand a few things.”

“This bite you’ve got, it won’t kill you, it won’t turn you, but it will change you, and I need you to be prepared for that. I can’t just send you on your way without your full cooperation.”

“The hell does that mean?!” Daryl barks, finally losing his temper. “Change me how? Enough beatin’ around the goddamn bush! Tell me what fuckin’ bit me!”

Rick stands abruptly and Daryl instinctively raises his arms to protect himself, flinching. Rick’s expression cracks. He looks down. “No, I changed my mind. I don’t think you’re ready just yet.”

“What?” Daryl growls. He's still expecting a blow, and feels thrown when it doesn't happen.

Rick shakes his head, resolute. “Tomorrow, once you’re more rested. Try the pudding.”

“I don’t _want_ no fuckin’ pudding,” Daryl says mutinously. Fuck, what is _with_ this mind gaming asshole? 

“Suit yourself, then. The bowl, please.” Rick holds out his hand. Daryl passes it to him after a long moment. Rick puts it back on the tray, picking it up. He takes the smaller bowl of chocolate pudding and places it on the nightstand. “Why don’t I just leave this here, in case you change your mind.”

“Not gonna,” Daryl says. 

“Okay,” Rick replies, infuriatingly calm. He picks up the tray without the pudding bowl on it. “You should get that rest. But before I go... you’re not still thinkin’ of clockin’ me, are you?” His lips twitch.

Daryl’s eyes go slanted, which only seems to make Rick more amused with himself.

“Alright, alright. Not a fan of the puns, I take it. That’s fine. One day, Daryl, you’ll learn to love ‘em.”

“Unlikely,” Daryl mutters. He doesn’t plan on staying long enough to love anything. Not that he would.

After a minute, he pulls the clock out from under the covers and puts it back on the nightstand.

“Thank you.” 

Daryl ignores a warm curl in his gut and avoids Rick’s eyes. “Yeah, you’re welcome, asshole.”

Rick chuckles lowly as he exits the room, footsteps creaking down the stairs. Daryl hears him start to hum Elvis again.


End file.
